“Do you mean to say that this man Fentolin actually possesses information which the Government hasn’t as to the intentions of foreign Powers?” Hamel asked.

Kinsley nodded.  There was a slight flush upon his pallid cheeks.

“He not only has it, but he doesn’t mean to part with it.  A few hundred years ago, when the rulers of this country were men with blood in their veins, he’d have been given just one chance to tell all he knew, and hung as a traitor if he hesitated.  We don’t do that sort of thing nowadays.  We rather go in for preserving traitors.  We permit them even in our own House of Commons.  However, I don’t want to depress you and play the alarmist so soon after your return to London.  I dare say the old country’ll muddle along through our time.”

“Don’t be foolish,” Hamel begged.  “There’s no other subject of conversation could interest me half as much.  Have you formed any idea yourself as to the nature of this conference?”

“We all have an idea,” Kinsley replied grimly; “India for Russia; a large slice of China for Japan, with probably Australia thrown in; Alsace-Lorraine for France’s neutrality.  There’s bribery for you.  What’s to become of poor England then?  Our friends are only human, after all, and it’s merely a question of handing over to them sufficient spoil.  They must consider themselves first:  that’s the first duty of their politicians towards their country.”

“You mean to say,” Hamel asked, “that you seriously believe that a conference is on the point of being held at which France and Russia are to be invited to consider suggestions like this?”

“I am afraid there’s no doubt about it,” Kinsley declared.  “Their ambassadors in London profess to know nothing.  That, of course, is their reasonable attitude, but there’s no doubt whatever that the conference has been planned.  I should say that to-night we are nearer war, if we can summon enough spirit to fight, than we have been since Fashoda.”

“Queer if I have returned just in time for the scrap,” Hamel remarked thoughtfully.  “I was in the Militia once, so I expect I can get a job, if there’s any fighting.”

“I can get you a better job than fighting—­one you can start on to-morrow, too,” Kinsley announced abruptly, “that is if you really want to help?”

“Of course I do,” Hamel insisted.  “I’m on for anything.”

“You say that you are entirely your own master for the next six months?”

“Or as much longer as I like,” Hamel assented.  “No plans at all, except that I might drift round to the Norfolk coast and look up some of the places where the governor used to paint.  There’s a queer little house—­St. David’s Tower, I believe they call it —­which really belongs to me.  It was given to my father, or rather he bought it, from a man who I think must have been some relative of your friend.  I feel sure the name was Fentolin.”

Reginald Kinsley set down his wine-glass.